


The Good Husband

by hidingfromsomeone



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Amnesia, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Epileptic Bucky Barnes, M/M, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-09
Updated: 2018-05-05
Packaged: 2018-07-22 14:49:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7443295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hidingfromsomeone/pseuds/hidingfromsomeone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky doesn't remember.<br/>Steve does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write a Stucky amnesia fic. A friend encouraged me to.  
> This is what happened next.

He woke with a gasping start, heart hammering, head spinning in the darkness.

“Buck?”

“What? What the fuck?”

He blinked in the darkness, freaking out for reasons he couldn’t explain.

A light turned on to his left, and a large man struggled to sit upright in the bed. He was intimidatingly big, broad and clearly strong, but his hair was fluffy duckling blond and sticking up in a dozen directions.

He darted away to the edge of the bed.

“Who are you? Where am I?”

“It’s okay,” the man said, his voice soft and soothing. “Try not to panic. My name’s Steve. I’m your husband. You’re at home. You’re safe.”

“I’m… what?”

“It’s okay. Do you want me to go make some tea?”

“Tea?”

“Yes. Sometimes you like it instead of coffee.”

“I do?”

“Yes.”

The man—Steve—pushed the covers back and rolled ungracefully out of the bed. He was wearing long pajama pants and no shirt and the muscles in his back rippled as he grabbed a T-shirt from the floor.

“Buck? You coming?”

“Yeah. I’ll be there in a minute.”

“Okay,” he said gently, turning as he pulled the shirt on and leaned against the doorframe. “The bathroom’s through there and the kitchen’s on your right when you get into the hall.” He hesitated for a moment, opening his mouth then closing it again. “I know you’re scared right now. This has happened before. Please don’t try and run away.”

“I… I won’t.”

He was going to. Not any more.

Steve nodded and turned, leaving the room on quiet feet. He waited a moment, then threw back the covers. He’d become aware of his own semi-nudity fairly quickly and although Steve said he was his husband, he didn’t want to be naked in front of him.

“I only have one arm,” he said to the silent room. “Shit.”

 

It took a moment more to compose himself. Then he found clothes on the floor next to his side of the bed and pulled on the black shirt with two red triangles on it and long black pajama pants. The pants were decorated with green fists. He wondered if this was significant.

The bedroom was somehow both luxurious and sparse. The bed was huge, which made sense, Steve was a big guy. But the blankets and sheets that covered it were soft and humble; a home-made patchwork quilt, a thick fleece throw, navy blue sheets. The floors were polished wood and the walls bare, apart from one huge painting in a simple frame.

He quickly used the bathroom and went to find the kitchen.

Steve was working at the stove, his back to the the door. There was a kettle on the burner and two mugs on the counter and Steve was clutching the edge of it, his head bowed.

“Steve?” he said.

He startled. “Sorry. Kettle’s almost boiling. You want a snack or anything?”

“No, thank you.”

He pulled one of the chairs out from the wooden table and sat down, aware that he felt well balanced even without his left arm.

_Muscle memory._

Steve turned and leaned back against the counter, folding his impressive arms over his impressive chest.

“You’ve done this before.”

Steve nodded. “Yeah. It’s okay. It’s gonna be fine. Do you remember your name?”

He frowned. “Buck?”

Steve smiled, his expression fond. “Yeah. I call you Buck. Your name is James Buchanan Barnes. ‘Bucky’ was your nickname when you were a kid. It sort of stuck.”

“Bucky.” He tried the name in his mouth. It sort of fit. “Stupid fucking name.”

Steve laughed. “I like it,” he said. “You know where we are, Buck?”

“You said we’re at home.”

“Yeah. Where’s home?”

He blinked and felt his breathing grow a little shorter.

“No, no, don’t panic,” Steve said, holding his hands out. “It’s fine. I’m just trying to get a picture of where you are. You’re fine, you’re safe.”

“Okay.”

“We’re in Brooklyn, in New York.”

“Okay.”

“You know what year it is?”

He thought hard about that. “Nineteen…. Eighty…?”

Steve shook his head gently. “It’s twenty-seventeen.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Oh.” He took another deep breath. “You said this has happened before.”

“Yeah. Sometimes. It’s not anything to worry about.”

“That’s where I’m gonna disagree with you, pal,” he said wryly.

For some reason, this statement made Steve beam.

The kettle started to whistle and Steve turned away, pouring the hot water over two teabags. He left the bags in the water, poked at them with a spoon a few times, then brought them over to the table.

“This is the fancy tea you like. A friend bought it for you.”

“Oh.” Bucky sipped at his mug, the dark blue one, then nodded. The tea was tangy and spicy. “I do like it.”

“You want to know? Or we can just watch TV for a while.”

Bucky considered this. “Tell me.”

“You have a neurological condition. One of the side effects of that is epilepsy. You know what that means?”

“Like… fits?”

He couldn’t say exactly where the information came from. Just that it was there, waiting for him to put his lips around the word.

“Yeah, exactly. You have epileptic seizures in your sleep, and when you wake up you can be confused.”

“Does this happen a lot?”

Steve blew over his own tea and shook his head. “Not a lot. This is the third—no, fourth time it’s happened.”

“Oh.”

“I’m getting better at helping you when it does happen though.”

His expression said enough. It said it had been a lot, lot worse in the past. Bucky decided to give him some slack.

“How long will it last?”

“What, the confusion?”

That didn’t feel like the right word. He said yes anyway.

“I don’t know, buddy. The longest was a few days. The shortest a few hours.”

“Days?”

“Yeah. It’ll be fine, though. I hope you can trust me to take care of you. I know you don’t know me. But I care about you a lot.”

Bucky nodded. “What happened to my arm?”

Steve winced and covered it quickly. Bucky still noticed though.

“You lost it in an accident when you were younger. You had a metal prosthesis for a while, then you had another accident and lost that too.”

“I sound fairly accident-prone.”

Steve rolled his eyes. “You can get yourself into plenty of trouble, yeah.”

They were quiet for a few minutes, sipping their tea.

“And you’re my husband?”

Silently, Steve held up his hand. Fourth finger of his left hand. There was a simple gold band there. Bucky looked down at his own left hand, which didn’t exist. There was a gold band on the fourth finger of his right hand. He hadn’t paid any attention to it before now.

“I’m married to a man.”

“Yep. Sorry.”

He laughed at that. “That’s… interesting.”

“Mhmm.”

“How long we been married for?”

“Not that long. About eighteen months now.”

“Huh. We been together long?”

Steve shook his head. “We’ve known each other since we were kids. Grew up a few blocks from here. It took us a while to figure this out. When we did… it’s been pretty amazing since.”

“You love me.”

“Yeah,” Steve said, his blue eyes suddenly intense. “Very much.”

 

They moved into the family room, where a huge, grey, L-shaped couch dominated the space. Like the rest of the apartment, the ceilings were huge in here, the walls painted a pale cream color, and the wooden floors covered with thick rugs. It looked like a home.

When they sat down Steve gave him plenty of space, not pushing for any kind of contact. Bucky appreciated that. He might be a married man, but there were still boundaries. He guessed having no recollection of his husband at all was a fairly decent boundary.

Steve loaded up some show about women in prison and kicked back, comfortable here, in this space.

Dawn was just starting to edge through the windows, soft and pale gold, and after the first episode Bucky found himself relaxing, just a little. After the second, he noticed Steve was starting to doze.

“Hey. Steve.”

He startled awake. “Huh?”

“Sorry. I just thought—do you have to go to work or anything?”

“Nah,” he said, leaning back into the warm embrace of the couch cushions. “I work here.”

“Oh.” Bucky considered that. “What do you do?”

“I’m an artist,” Steve said. “I paint.”

“You paint.” It was a statement. “Oh shit, am I married to some incredibly famous artist?”

“People have heard of me,” Steve mumbled.

“People have heard of you. Oh shit.”

“Is that a problem?”

“No. No.” It was, but Bucky couldn’t figure out why. “Do _I_ have a job I need to get to?”

“Nope,” Steve said. “Don’t worry about it.”

“So I’m unemployed.”

“You work as a consultant, but it’s not a day-job. I’ll give your boss a call in a few hours. She’s a friend of ours, a good friend, and she understands that stuff like this happens.”

“Am I gonna get fired?”

“No! I promise. You don’t always tell me a lot about your job. You’re good at it though.”

“Is it military?”

Steve stiffened. “Why do you ask that?”

“I’ve lost my left arm twice,” he said, deadpan. “I’ve been trying to think of another profession where I might have lost an arm twice. I figure I’m not a coal miner. Or a chemist.”

“No,” Steve said, laughing softly. “You’re not. You used to be military. A Sergeant in the Army. You got an honorable discharge though. That’s how we can afford for you not to have a day job.”

“Oh.”

That sounded reasonable.

On the screen, a woman in a prison shower block stepped naked from the stall. Bucky’s eyes widened.

“Uh, Steve?”

“Yeah?”

“You sure I’m married to a man?”

Steve made a face, then pulled at the waistband of his pajamas, checking at the contents of his underpants.

“Pretty sure,” he said, letting the band snap back.

For a moment Bucky just stared, then he dissolved into helpless giggles. “I can’t believe you just did that.”

Steve grinned, pink-cheeked, looking supremely proud of himself.

“Why do you ask?”

“Ask what?”

“For me to check on my manhood.”

“Oh. I was just thinking that those women are awfully nice looking. I definitely like looking at them.”

For a split second he was horrified with himself the moment the words came out of his mouth. Did this man—his husband—know that Bucky liked women?

“Geez, Bucky, you’ve been chasing skirts since you were able to stand on two feet. You don’t need to apologize for looking at women.”

“Okay.”

“You like women. I think you prefer them, actually, but you’ve never told me so. It’s just the impression I get.”

“I like you, though.” It was a question.

Steve shifted on the couch to look at Bucky better.

“It’s hard to explain,” he said. “For the longest time I didn’t recognize what my feelings for you were. You’ve always been my best friend. My family, after my folks passed on. It took almost losing you for us both to realize what had been there all along.”

Bucky nodded slowly. “I’m sorry. This must be hard on you. Me not remembering anything, I mean.”

“It’s okay. Honestly. You have… a lot of complex medical needs. Speaking of which, you need to take some medication.”

He balked at that, physically recoiling.

Nothing that Steve had said or done so far had hurt him. Confused him, for sure. And if Steve had wanted to hurt him he’d surely have slipped something in the tea, or, or…

Still. Bucky didn’t want to take any drugs. He felt very strongly about that.

“They help,” Steve said gently, clearly understanding Bucky’s reticence. “I won’t force you to take anything. You’ll likely have some uncomfortable side effects for a day or so, and there might be more seizures if you don’t take your Diazepam. But I won’t force you.”

“I don’t want to.”

He felt the need to vocalise that.

“Okay.”

Steve didn’t mention it again.

 

An hour or so later Steve got up and started fixing breakfast; great piles of scrambled eggs and toast. Bucky stood at the doorway, his arm folded protectively over his waist as he watched. Steve seemed happy in the kitchen. No, happy was the wrong word. Content, maybe. At home.

This was a real nice apartment. And in New York, too. Either his discharge from the Army had brought in a lot of money, or his current job brought in a lot of money, or Steve’s paintings did. Because Bucky couldn’t remember anything about himself, but he did know that apartments in New York cost a lot.

“Steve?”

“Yeah? Do you mind buttering that toast for me?”

“No.” He went to the fridge and found the butter. When he went back to the counter there was a knife waiting for him. “So, I was just thinking, and I know stuff. I know about New York and I know what epilepsy is. I know about how to work an oven and how to ride the subway and what books are. But I don’t know anything about myself.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. It’s like someone wiped out all the memories I have about myself but left me able to function in the world.”

Steve carefully plated up the eggs, sprinkled a little extra grated cheese on top, then carried them over to the table where they’d had tea earlier. Bucky did the same with the toast and took his seat.

“Eat,” Steve said. “You’ll like it, I promise.”

“Okay.”

“You have a therapist,” Steve said after his first bite of eggs. “His name is Sam. He’s a good guy. After the last time this happened you talked it through with him. You usually remember all this, by the way. When the rest of your memories come back.”

“Oh,” Bucky said. He did like the eggs.

“Sam thinks your brain protects itself. Like I said, you have this neurological condition which means it’s harder for you to make and store long-term memories.”

“Oh,” he said again.

“Try not to worry about it too much,” Steve said. He sliced his toast into triangles.

“I’ll try.”

Steve grinned.

After breakfast, Bucky washed the dishes while Steve took a shower, then Bucky showered while Steve dried the dishes up and put them away. It seemed like an easy domesticity to Bucky.

When he went back into the living room Steve was reading a battered paperback. He’d dressed in light jeans and a navy sweatshirt, his bare feet tucked under himself. When he noticed Bucky he grinned.

“What?”

“That’s my sweater.”

It was long-sleeved, dark red, with a V-neck. Bucky had touched it and it was incredibly soft, so he put it on.

“Oh. Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Steve said. “Come and sit here and I’ll pin the sleeve up for you.”

Bucky perched on the edge of the couch and Steve grabbed a small leather case from the coffee table. He folded and rolled the left sleeve of the shirt in practiced motions, tucking the spare fabric behind Bucky’s shoulder and pinning it in place with safety pins from the case. It felt far more comfortable like this. Steve had clearly done it before. Maybe lots of times.

“We’re married,” he said again.

“Yeah, Buck.”

Steve made a motion like he was going to touch Bucky’s cheek, then pulled his hand back.

“Would you hold onto me for a while?”

“Of course I will.”

Steve tucked the case back under the coffee table and shuffled back on the couch, leaving space for Bucky to tuck in between his body and the squashy cushions.

It was weird. Bucky didn’t know this man at all. He was essentially a stranger. But there was something about his careful voice, his gentle touches, the way he gave Bucky all the space he needed. He didn’t push. Didn’t freak out. He was solid.

A good husband.

Bucky wriggled into the space Steve had left for him, laying on his left side so he could anchor himself with his right arm around Steve’s middle. He carefully put his head on Steve’s shoulder. Tried to relax.

Steve picked up his book again and wrapped his other arm loosely around Bucky’s middle.

They stayed like that for a long time.

It wasn’t until he startled awake again that Bucky realised he’d been drifting asleep. Steve kept up the gentle movement of his fingers through Bucky’s hair, scratching at his scalp, tucking the longer strands behind his ear. That motion meant his fingers brushed over Bucky’s cheek. He decided he liked it.

“Good nap?”

“Hmm.”

“We didn’t go to bed until late last night. You only got a few hours’ sleep; I’m not surprised you were still tired.”

“What time is it now?”

“Almost noon.”

“Oh. Sorry.” Bucky stretched, then settled back down in Steve’s embrace. “Did you have plans for today?”

“Nothing more important than this.”

That was nice. Bucky tried not to feel guilty. He was Steve’s husband. They could spend a day doing nothing.

“What month is it?”

“September. The twenty-something. Twenty third? Something like that.”

Bucky huffed a laugh into Steve’s sweater.

“Do you want to go outside?”

Steve hummed softly. “We could.”

“But? You were going to say ‘but’.”

“You have a… troubled relationship with the outside world,” he said, still stroking Bucky’s hair.

“In a bad way?”

“In a way that means I’m always careful and probably over-protective of you. You’re kind of vulnerable right now and I don’t want anything to upset you.”

Bucky smiled, knowing Steve couldn’t see it. “That’s very nice of you. A little condescending, but nice.”

Steve snorted. “Do you want to see my studio?”

“Sure.”

They disentangled themselves from each other and Steve took Bucky’s hand instinctively. He took them to the front door of the apartment and grabbed a key.

“It’s upstairs,” he explained.

He locked the apartment door behind them and led him up a flight of narrow stairs, then through the only door on this floor of the building.

“When we were—“ Steve started, then corrected himself. “Back in the 1940’s, this place was a factory,” he said. “They made fabric in here. The building was converted into apartments only about twenty-five years ago. When we bought our place this apartment was owned by someone else. Then when it came up for sale about six months ago we bought it too.”

“Why don’t we live here?” Bucky asked.

The space was much bigger than the apartment downstairs. The ceiling was almost impossibly high, as were the huge windows that looked out over the river and to Manhattan beyond. They were the small-paneled windows that suggested someone had taken care to restore this building when they were renovating it, putting things back how they might have once been.

“We never needed a lot of space, you and I,” Steve said. He dropped Bucky’s hand so Bucky could go look at the view. “We didn’t have money growing up. Our families were working class. It felt right, coming back here to live, but I didn’t want to suddenly have a luxurious existence now we got a bit of money. It’s not who we are.” He shrugged and shoved his hands in his pockets.

“So you use this as an art studio instead.”

“Yeah.”

“And we live on top of each other in a one-bed apartment.”

“Yeah. To be honest, we spend most of our time together anyway. Even if we did have a big place most of it would be empty most of the time.”

Bucky turned away from the window.

“Show me your art,” he said.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Steve was a contradiction.

He painted in thick, bold colors on huge canvasses; wild passion, dark storms, carving out intensity of emotion with acrylic and a palette knife.

And he sketched with pencil in the corner of newspapers, tiny doodles, studies of hands or the angle of the toaster or the way the light caught his morning mug of coffee.

He had a skill with portraiture that took Bucky’s breath away.

 

On the second day, he woke with another panic attack, but settled quicker. He remembered the events of the previous day, though still none before it, and Steve’s sleepy, concerned face was a comfort.

The previous night they’d dressed for bed with the awkwardness of strangers. Bucky was sure he made love with his husband, maybe often, and probably wore less layers in his marital bed than what he’d chosen.

When he found his calm in Steve’s arms he was far too hot and kicked the covers away, preferring to leech warmth from Steve’s body instead. He didn’t sleep again, but drifted like he had on the couch. There was a steady heartbeat under his cheek and a strong arm anchoring his body in place. That was enough.

He didn’t want to spend another day napping, even if there was a dull headache behind his eyes that strongly suggested he stay inside. Steve had pressed a paperback into his hands and led him back up to the studio.

There was a mezzanine level that ran the length of the room and two oversized armchairs placed awkwardly; half facing each other, half the window. Bucky took the one on the left, plopped himself down in it, and opened the book.

He lost half the morning that way, his imagination filling the spaces between the letters. He broke once to pee, then find coffee and a snack, and Steve was still working when he got back upstairs.

“I like it here,” Bucky said, standing slightly behind Steve so he could watch the elegant way his wrist moved with a paintbrush.

“Good,” Steve said.

Bucky leaned down and pressed his cheek to the top of Steve’s head, just for a moment. It was almost too intimate, but Bucky didn’t pull away until he was ready. He set his coffee down on the little table at Steve’s elbow, next to Steve’s mug, and he was seriously considering asking Steve for a kiss, when his world went terrifyingly, shudderingly dark.

 

“It’s okay,” someone cooed, stroking his hair and his face. “It’s okay. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

He tried to move and pain—oh wow—pain in his face and his tongue and his chest and blinding pain behind his eyes and—

“You’re okay.”

He made a noise in the back of his throat.

“No, don’t move. Just stay there. You’re okay.”

“Ah…. Ah… Ow.”

A soft sound, maybe a bitten-off laugh. Then the sound of rushing footsteps up the stairs outside and the door flinging open and more rushing until someone else was kneeling next to him.

“Hey.”

That wasn’t Steve’s voice.

“How’s he doing?”

“Coming round slowly.”

“How long was he out for?”

“Three minutes, forty seconds.”

“Fitting the whole time?”

“Nope. He stopped for about twenty seconds, then started again.”

Cool fingers pressed against Bucky’s throat and his instinct was to pull away. Someone was taking his pulse. His head hurt.

“Ow,” he said again.

“Hey, Bucky, it’s Sam.”

“He doesn’t remember you, Sam.”

“I know. He probably wants to know who’s poking at him right now though.”

“Ow,” Bucky said again.

“Can you open your eyes for me, Bucky?”

He was lying on his right side, his arm extended along the floor. One knee was tucked up. His neck hurt.

He blinked. His eyes felt gummy and didn’t want to focus on anything, not until a hand with one finger held up hovered in his line of sight.

“There you are. No, don’t try to move. You’re fine down there for a minute.”

“He woke up yesterday—“

“I got your code blue—“

“Yeah, and he didn’t want to take his meds. I didn’t want to force him.”

A long sigh. “We need to have a conversation about that.”

“I’m not going to force him, Sam!”

“Want,” Bucky slurred like a sailor on shore leave as he tried to move his head. The cool fingers were back, holding it in place. “Want the meds now.”

Steve sobbed.

“Go get him the meds,” Sam said. “And some water.”

He waited until Steve left before talking to Bucky again.

“Who… are you?” It took a long time to get the words out.

“I’m Sam,” Sam said. “I’m a former pararescue and your current therapist. I’ve been Steve’s friend for about five years now, known you a little less. I stood up for Steve at your wedding.”

“Oh.”

“You think you’re ready to move?”

“Yeah.”

Sam helped him into a sitting position, leaning against a wall. Bucky pressed his legs together and planted his feet for balance and decided he felt disgusting.

“He said… epilepsy.”

“Yep,” Sam told him. He had a green medic’s bag with him and a silver-metalic backpack. He grabbed a pair of blue gloves, snapped them on, and took a pen light from the bag. “We’re not quite sure if epilepsy is the cause or the effect, and you’re not a particular fan of having stuff strapped to your head or being in confined spaces, so EEGs or MRIs are out of the question. The Diazepam seems to help though.”

“Oh.”

Sam cupped Bucky’s cheek in one hand and shone the light in his eyes. That made his headache roar, so he tried to squirm away.

“Sorry, man. Two seconds.”

As Sam was finishing up with his light-torture, Steve re-appeared with a bottle of water and a handful of medicine bottles. His eyes looked a little red and raw, like he’d been crying. Bucky decided not to mention it.

“You bit your tongue?”

“Think so.” He opened his mouth and stuck it out.

“Yeah, a little bit. It’s not too bad though. Should heal up overnight.”

Sam sat back on his heels and looked at Bucky seriously.

“You’ve got no more reason to trust me than anyone else. If you’ve got any questions I’d be happy to answer them though.”

Bucky tried to say it and failed. Twice. He worked his jaw and his head burst with pain again.

“I think I pissed myself,” he said, the words coming slow and slurring.

Sam shook his head. “I’m a medic, man. It’s okay. Why don’t we get you downstairs and into a shower, then I’ll talk you through your meds.”

Bucky nodded. He didn’t have words for that.

 

The pile of blankets from the bed found their way to the family room and Bucky made a nest in them. Sam had helped him shower and change, had combed out his hair then pulled it back with an elastic so it wasn’t falling in his face.

Steve had stayed out of the bathroom, giving Bucky his privacy, and Bucky had taken the opportunity to ask Sam

“He loves me?”

and

“I love him?”

He’d been satisfied with both answers.

Sam had stayed for another hour after Bucky had made his blanket nest and carefully talked him through the different medications and what they did. He showed Bucky his qualifications, the badges and medals he’d earned during his time serving, the certificate that said he was a counselor and therapist now.

He didn’t get frustrated when Bucky kept asking questions, or when those questions took a long time to get out. He didn’t get freaked out by Bucky’s naked body or when he needed help drying off or when Bucky asked for a straw to drink his water, because he didn’t trust his one remaining hand. It was still trembling a little.

Sam wrote his phone number down on a piece of paper before he left and pressed it into Bucky’s hand. He pointed to where there was a phone box on the corner of the street and said he knew it worked, because he’d checked it himself. He said if Bucky ever needed anything he couldn’t ask Steve for—anything at all—he should call Sam.

Bucky took the piece of paper and hid it in a safe place when Steve walked Sam to the door.

It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Steve. He did. He just liked having a plan B.

Steve came back and knelt in front of Bucky. He looked wrecked.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky croaked.

“Don’t you ever say that,” Steve said. He sounded a little raw, too.

“How can you do this?” Bucky said. He extended his hand and Steve nuzzled into the palm. “How can I be worth it? Am I ever enough?”

“Oh Bucky.”

He was crying again, cheeks wet against Bucky’s hand, and for the first time since he’d woken up the previous morning and freaked out, Bucky regretted not having another arm. He needed it now, to pet and soothe Steve while Steve sobbed into the other one.

When he was done crying, Steve held Bucky’s hand in both of his own and pressed it to his cheek.

“Everything I do is because of you. Every breath, every moment, every painting… if there’s no you, there’s no me, Buck. I spent a thousand lifetimes wanting you and now—if some force out there made it so we could be together, then I’m not wasting a second of it.”

He closed his eyes and leaned into Bucky’s hand.

“I will make sure you know, every single day, that there is nothing more in the universe I want more than to be right here next to you.”

“Oh,” Bucky said.

It took a moment for his brain to catch up with that.

Then,

“Would you like to get in here with me?”

Steve gave him a watery smile.

Bucky shifted over.

 

That night, Bucky curled his body around Steve’s, tucking his face into the nape of Steve’s neck and holding them together with his arm around Steve’s waist.

They stayed that way until morning.

 

Steve was in the shower, washing the paint spatter off, when someone knocked loudly on the door. Bucky seriously considered not answering, then the someone started singing loudly about building a snowman, and Bucky knew they had neighbors.

He opened the door to a fair haired man balancing three very large pizza boxes in one hand and a six pack of beer in the other.

“Pizza and beer,” the man sang to the tune of Beethoven’s fifth symphony. “PIZZA AND BEER.”

“Hey,” Bucky said.

“Yo.” The man carefully sidestepped Bucky and made his way to the family room. “Tash can’t make it, she’s off somewhere secret doing something secret. I don’t know, man. You know how she is.”

“Sure.”

Bucky shut and locked the door again, then hovered in the doorway as the man dumped the pizza boxes and went to the kitchen for napkins. He seemed to know his way around.

“Where’s Steve?”

“He’ll be right out.”

“Did he forget Thursday Pizza and Beer?”

Bucky considered that. “Possibly.”

The man stopped, a wad of napkins clutched in his hand, and looked at Bucky hard.

“You okay, man? You look kinda…”

Bucky remembered the words overheard a few days before. “Um… Code blue?”

The man’s expression changed immediately.

“Oh shit,” he said. “Fuck. I lost my phone last week, keep meaning to replace it but— _fuck._ I am in so much trouble. I should go. Steve is gonna kill me.”

“Don’t go,” Bucky said quickly, holding his hand out. “I kinda want pizza and beer.”

“Bucky?” Steve called.

“ _Shit._ ”

He walked into the family room wearing only sweatpants, water still clinging to his chest. Bucky was definitely developing feelings about Steve’s chest.

“Clint?”

“Man, I am _so_ sorry,” the man—Clint—said. “I lost my phone, I didn’t get your code blue, and Tash is off on a job somewhere and… fuck, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Bucky said. “You brought dinner.”

Steve looked at Bucky, studying him, Bucky thought, for any sign of distress. “You want him to go, Buck?”

Bucky shook his head. “No. It’s fine. Let’s have pizza.”

“Okay. I’ll go put a shirt on.”

“No need to on my behalf,” Clint called after him. He sank down onto the floor in front of the coffee table and pried the lid of the top box. “This one’s yours.”

Bucky took the box passed to him. Sausage and mushroom. It looked good.

“Thanks,” he said.

Clint already had his own slice out. This pizza was _huge._

“When did the whole…” he waved his hand at Bucky “Happen?”

“Uh, four days ago. This is good pizza.”

“Right? How you doing with it?”

Bucky shrugged. “I don’t really have a basis of comparison. I had a seizure on Tuesday. Sam came over. Do you know Sam?”

“Yeah, I know Sam. He’s a good guy.”

“Yeah.” He took another bite of pizza. “I was kind of out of it for a few hours after that. We’ve mostly just been chilling out. Steve said I don’t do so well outside when this happens.”

“Naw, man,” Clint said. “You’ll be alright eventually. Take the opportunity to kick back, you know? Let your mind recover.”

Steve came in and sat down strategically between them. Bucky wondered whose protection that was for. He grabbed the TV remote and set up the next episode of the prison show with the hot women.

“So, how are things?” Steve asked.

“You are so pissed with me. I can tell. You’re gonna be nice about it in front of Bucky but I am in for a whole world of shit.”

“No you’re not,” Bucky said. “If he gives you shit I’ll kick his ass. Even with only one arm.”

Clint snorted and Steve looked at him in surprise.

“What?” Bucky said, teasing.

“Nothing,” Steve said, turning to his pizza box. But he was smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What am I doing? I don't have time for this. I should be doing other things, not writing ridiculously angsty amnesia fics. Goddamn it.  
> Next chapter will earn the E rating.  
> I think.


	3. Chapter 3

Clint did the exact same thing Sam had done, pressing a scrap of paper with a phone number written on it into Bucky’s hand before he left. Well, it was cardboard from one of the pizza boxes, rather than paper.

But it made Bucky wonder.

“Do you mind if I talk to Clint?” Bucky asked Steve, who was clearing up the mess left from their unexpected pizza dinner.

“Sure. Can I help?”

Steve looked concerned, but he looked concerned about a lot of things.

Bucky just shook his head. “No, thanks.”

“Okay.”

He followed Clint out into the hallway, but hesitated before following him down the stairs and onto the street.

“You all right?” Clint asked.

Bucky hesitated. “I… don’t know.”

Clint leaned against the wall at the top of the stairs and hooked his thumbs into his pockets. His posture was easy, though Bucky couldn’t help but notice how strong he was. And his eyes. They were intense.

“I don’t know a lot, but you can ask me anything.”

For a couple of minutes, Bucky didn’t speak while he tried to order his thoughts. Clint didn’t rush him or make any move to leave. It was like he had all the time in the world.

“He loves me,” Bucky said, though it wasn’t the question he really wanted to ask.

Clint hummed in response. “Yeah.”

“I love him.”

“I can’t tell you that, man.”

It wasn’t the same response Sam had given. For some reason Bucky appreciated this one more.

“I’m not allowed to leave.”

Clint’s eyebrows shot up at that. “You’re not?”

“No.”

“Huh.”

“Do you know why?”

Clint looked awkward, then. He shifted to rub the back of his neck and didn’t meet Bucky’s eyes. Then he sighed.

Bucky tried again. “Is it because someone might hurt me, or because I might hurt someone else? Or because I might hurt myself?”

“Maybe a little of all three?”

Oh.

“Someone wants to hurt me?”

“Fuck,” Clint said.

“I was a soldier.”

“Yes.”

Bucky knew that already. Even if he hadn’t been told, he was pretty sure he would have figured it out for himself.

Clint reached out and squeezed Bucky’s shoulder – the socket that didn’t contain an arm.

“Steve cares about you. If he thinks it’s better for you to stay inside… well, he’s probably right. If there’s one thing I do know it’s that Steve wouldn’t do anything to hurt you. He thinks you hung the goddamn moon.”

Bucky forced himself to smile at that.

“But if you want to go out,” Clint continued. “I think you should tell him that.”

“He was right about the meds, though.”

Clint raised an eyebrow in question.

“He said I should take medicine, for my epilepsy,” Bucky said. “But I didn’t want to so he didn’t make me. Then I had a seizure. So I took the medicine and I haven’t had another one.”

“I do know you have epilepsy, yeah,” Clint said.

“Steve was right about that, and what if I’m wrong for wanting to go outside?”

Clint looked at him, steady and level.

“And why do people keep giving me their phone numbers in case I want to escape?”

“Shit,” Clint said, and gently guided Bucky back into the apartment.

Bucky wanted to protest at that, he didn’t like people making decisions for him. Steve was hovering in the hallway, clearly ready to run at the slightest sign of Bucky’s discomfort.

“Hey,” Clint said to Steve. “Bucky needs shoes and a jacket. We’re going to take a walk around the block.”

Steve folded his arms over his chest and looked mad. At Clint, not Bucky. He nodded tensely and turned to go back into the kitchen. Bucky hesitated for a second, then grabbed a jacket from the hook near the door and shoved his feet into a pair of sneakers. He wasn’t sure if either belonged to him, but they fit, so he didn’t care.

Clint slammed the door closed behind them and jogged lightly down the stairs. Bucky followed, feeling nervous. It was dark outside, but Bucky knew that already, he’d watched the light fade through the living room windows earlier in the evening. He wasn’t quite prepared for how loud it would be out here though, what with the noise from the cars—horns blaring and engines growling—kids playing across the street, the city humming around them.

“Left or right?” Clint asked.

It didn’t matter. Bucky knew it didn’t matter, because he knew New York City blocks were square, and by walking ‘around the block’ they’d end up back here no matter which direction he chose. But he appreciated Clint giving him a choice.

“Left,” Bucky said.

Clint nodded but didn’t comment, and they easily fell into step as Clint took the lead.

Feeling self-conscious, Bucky wrapped his arm around his waist and kept his left side to Clint’s right, making it less obvious that he was missing his left arm. Not that anyone was paying much attention to them.

They passed a few groups of people on the short walk; a woman with a screaming baby in a stroller, a gaggle of teenage girls who looked too young and too underdressed to be out at this time, a middle aged couple who were dressed fancy.

“Okay?” Clint murmured when a guy who was walking too fast brushed up against Bucky on the sidewalk. Bucky nodded. He really was.

It took about ten minutes to complete the loop, then they were back at the front door to the building where Bucky lived. With his husband. Who was probably mad.

“Thanks,” Bucky said as Clint pressed a card against the security panel. The door beeped softly and Clint pushed it open.

“Any time, man. You feel better now?”

Bucky nodded, knowing that was what Clint wanted, and Clint clapped him on the shoulder again before melting away into the night. For reasons Bucky couldn’t quite name, he felt very foolish as he climbed the stairs to his apartment.

He knocked on the door, not sure if Steve would have locked it or not. A moment later—so quickly Steve must have been waiting in the hallway—it opened.

“Thanks,” Bucky murmured.

He carefully took off the sneakers and jacket, leaving them neatly in the spaces he’d taken them from.

“I’m sorry,” Steve said.

Bucky frowned. “What for?”

“Making you feel like you couldn’t leave.”

“It’s okay.” Bucky shook his head. “I should be the one apologizing.”

Steve laughed and rubbed his hand over his face. “Come on,” he said, and took Bucky back to the couch. That was better.

 

The next day, when Bucky still didn’t remember, Steve painted and Bucky read.

He read, and he read, and he read.

When he finished a book, he’d look to Steve, who would go find him another paperback, pressing it into Bucky’s hand with a knowing smile.

In the back of his mind, Bucky knew that he’d read these books before. They were possibly his favorites. Steve would know that, surely. Because these stories—oh _God,_ these stories. His battered mind wrapped itself around them and he found some new kind of bliss in getting lost, safe in the clutches in his armchair on his mezzanine in his apartment in Brooklyn.

He climbed down the metal, spiral staircase and plonked himself at Steve’s feet.

“Finished?” Steve asked.

Bucky hummed and pressed his temple to Steve’s knee, leaning there for a moment.

“I can find you another one.”

“In a minute.”

“Okay.”

Bucky closed his eyes, and listened to the scratchy-soft noise of paintbrush on canvas, and drifted.

“Bucky?”

“Hmm?”

“I’m going to make some lunch. Want some?”

Steve’s hand skimmed over his hair, then retreated. Steve did that a lot—sought out comfort, for himself or for Bucky or for both of them, then pulled back before he could do something that might make Bucky feel uncomfortable.

“Yeah. Will you kiss me?”

“Huh?”

Bucky tipped his head up, a little pleased at Steve’s expression.

“Will you kiss me?”

“Yeah, Buck. Any time.”

“Okay,” Bucky said, barely suppressing a laugh. “Will you kiss me now?”

Steve grabbed Bucky’s hand and tugged him to his feet. It was only a few steps from where his easel was set up to the window, looking out over the gray, miserably beautiful rainy afternoon.

Bucky’s heart skipped along and sudden nerves coiled in his stomach. What if he was bad at this? But Steve’s hands were already cupping his jaw, and Bucky went with instinct and grabbed Steve’s waist as he closed the distance between their lips.

It was warm, and gentle, and—oh, wow—Steve did something, angling his head to pull Bucky’s lower lip in between his own and sucked gently. Steve’s teeth barely scraped over Bucky’s lip and then his tongue flickered against it, and Bucky really wasn’t sure if his brain was working any more. He gently licked back, tasting Steve’s tongue and getting it, really understanding why two people would do this.

Steve broke away first. He slid his hands down over Bucky’s shoulders, then pulled Bucky into a strong hug.

“Thank you,” he mumbled against Bucky’s neck.

“For what?” Bucky laughed.

“Letting me have your first kiss.”

Just for that, Bucky pulled him into another one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do I know where this is going? No.   
> Do I know when it will end? Also no.   
> Sometimes you gotta just enjoy the ride.

**Author's Note:**

> I do this (leaving a work unfinished) so rarely. I will hopefully complete it in the next few days.  
> If you're interested in my published work you can find out more at annamartin-fiction.com


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